Phoebe's Baby and Angels of Mercy
On the way back from the showgrounds around Noon, I ask Vitalis to drop me in town so I can buy a radio. Nakumatt has a Philips on sale for 1,995 shillings and I’m dying to hear the BBC world news. So I buy the radio and look for Walter at his spot on the sidewalk, where he hawks his handmade goods when he’s not tending to Pambazuko business. Walter is there and we walk down the street slightly, looking for a private place for me to pass shillings to him, shillings donated by my friends in Atlanta that will go toward the materials for the roof of Pambazuko’s building.
Walter continues to walk out of town with me, to update me on other Pambazuko business. He tells me Vincent, the street boy, is doing well and his infectious sores are healing. At a small shack on the side of the road, we run into Phoebe, a woman who works with Pambazuko and who toured with us recently when Sue and Anna, from the UK, walked through to see our water projects. Phoebe is 22 years old and has four children. She’s a widow, her husband having died from AIDS. It’s nice to see Phoebe, but her youngest child, 12 months old, is not well. The girl, who looks like she’s 6-months-old, is sleeping soundly on Phoebe’s shoulder. Very soundly. Too soundly. Turns out they’ve just come from the district hospital and the baby has pneumonia and malaria. In the baby’s medical book, the doctor has written a list of seven prescribed medicines. Phoebe could afford the malaria medicine but not the fever reducer nor the pneumonia drug, nor any of the others listed.
I place my hand on the baby’s head and she is burning. The hottest I’ve ever felt on a child. My heart breaks. If her fever isn’t reduced, there’s no telling what damage might be caused. The baby doesn’t stir the slightest when I touch her. And I find myself putting my hand to her head repeatedly. She’s so precious and I’m so scared. The fever should be reduced at once. I ask Walter if he’ll take some of the money I just gave him to buy the medicines. About 400 shillings ($5 USD) will buy the pain reliever and pneumonia drug. Walter readily agrees. I ask him if he’ll go to town right this minute and buy the medicines, so Phoebe doesn’t worry, so she doesn’t have to carry her sick, sleeping baby all over town, so she can simply go home and wait for Walter to bring the drugs.
It’s a lot to ask of Walter, to trek back into town then back to the slums. But he truly doesn’t mind. I touch the baby’s head again. Phoebe has a slight smile on her face, a tad of her joy is seeping through, for I know how she must feel with three other little ones at home and this very still, too still, baby laying against her breasts, sick with little hope of recovery if she doesn’t get her drugs.
Jaime was sick during her first birthday and she lost weight and her large eyes became larger and I was so worried about her, even when the doctor gave her prescriptions. And James had bronchitis when he was six months old. He was so little and so sick, it hurt me. I see this on Phoebe’s face, as does Walter and Phoebe’s very caring friend, who is by her side constantly. But Pheobe is smiling slightly, as is her friend, and I’m touching the hot baby again and can’t keep from bursting out, “Go, go, go!” to Walter.
He waves a boda boda driver down instantly and is on the bike before we can blink. Then Walter and the bike are cycling toward town and we watch them fly away, Walter looking very much like an angle of mercy. A large, loving Angel of Mercy on the back of a boda boda. Phoebe says, “Thank you. Thank you.” We part at the corner, me headed to TICH, she to the slums. She’s smiling slightly, holding in the relief I know she feels.
My heart is still hurting for the baby. She’ll be fine, though. Phoebe will be fine. We’ll all be fine as long as there are Angels of Mercy ready to hop on boda bodas and fly away on their missions of compassion. As long as we have selfless Walters to take care of sick babies and worried moms. The baby will be fine. We’ll all be fine.
Walter continues to walk out of town with me, to update me on other Pambazuko business. He tells me Vincent, the street boy, is doing well and his infectious sores are healing. At a small shack on the side of the road, we run into Phoebe, a woman who works with Pambazuko and who toured with us recently when Sue and Anna, from the UK, walked through to see our water projects. Phoebe is 22 years old and has four children. She’s a widow, her husband having died from AIDS. It’s nice to see Phoebe, but her youngest child, 12 months old, is not well. The girl, who looks like she’s 6-months-old, is sleeping soundly on Phoebe’s shoulder. Very soundly. Too soundly. Turns out they’ve just come from the district hospital and the baby has pneumonia and malaria. In the baby’s medical book, the doctor has written a list of seven prescribed medicines. Phoebe could afford the malaria medicine but not the fever reducer nor the pneumonia drug, nor any of the others listed.
I place my hand on the baby’s head and she is burning. The hottest I’ve ever felt on a child. My heart breaks. If her fever isn’t reduced, there’s no telling what damage might be caused. The baby doesn’t stir the slightest when I touch her. And I find myself putting my hand to her head repeatedly. She’s so precious and I’m so scared. The fever should be reduced at once. I ask Walter if he’ll take some of the money I just gave him to buy the medicines. About 400 shillings ($5 USD) will buy the pain reliever and pneumonia drug. Walter readily agrees. I ask him if he’ll go to town right this minute and buy the medicines, so Phoebe doesn’t worry, so she doesn’t have to carry her sick, sleeping baby all over town, so she can simply go home and wait for Walter to bring the drugs.
It’s a lot to ask of Walter, to trek back into town then back to the slums. But he truly doesn’t mind. I touch the baby’s head again. Phoebe has a slight smile on her face, a tad of her joy is seeping through, for I know how she must feel with three other little ones at home and this very still, too still, baby laying against her breasts, sick with little hope of recovery if she doesn’t get her drugs.
Jaime was sick during her first birthday and she lost weight and her large eyes became larger and I was so worried about her, even when the doctor gave her prescriptions. And James had bronchitis when he was six months old. He was so little and so sick, it hurt me. I see this on Phoebe’s face, as does Walter and Phoebe’s very caring friend, who is by her side constantly. But Pheobe is smiling slightly, as is her friend, and I’m touching the hot baby again and can’t keep from bursting out, “Go, go, go!” to Walter.
He waves a boda boda driver down instantly and is on the bike before we can blink. Then Walter and the bike are cycling toward town and we watch them fly away, Walter looking very much like an angle of mercy. A large, loving Angel of Mercy on the back of a boda boda. Phoebe says, “Thank you. Thank you.” We part at the corner, me headed to TICH, she to the slums. She’s smiling slightly, holding in the relief I know she feels.
My heart is still hurting for the baby. She’ll be fine, though. Phoebe will be fine. We’ll all be fine as long as there are Angels of Mercy ready to hop on boda bodas and fly away on their missions of compassion. As long as we have selfless Walters to take care of sick babies and worried moms. The baby will be fine. We’ll all be fine.
posted by Cindi at 7:06 AM
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